Oct 18 2011
Oh Christ, we’ve got mice, I thought as I reached for the granola bar stashed in the car console.
The torn wrapper bore the tell-tale signs of tugging teeth. When I peeled it open, the chewy blueberry granola bar looked nibbled upon.
When you live near a field, there’s bound to be field mice. And sometime in the winter months they’re going to take a stab at the house. It’s typically when the days stay cold. The barn offers a steady supply of grain (horses are sloppy eaters) but there’s no beating the warmth inside.
In the past we’ve taken a proactive approach with a pest control company. And any critters who best that barrier are dinner for Blackie, the black snake that winters downstairs.
So the granola bar troubled me. Mice in October? That’s not even pre-season.
As soon as I got home, I opened the cupboard and scrutinized the cereal boxes for evidence. But they were nibble-free. Next, I checked the granola bar box. That was clean too. Finally I pulled everything out and looked for droppings.
There wasn’t the faintest hint of an interloper.
And that’s when I realized: we don’t have mice.
We have kids.
That morning I loaded up the kids and then ran back in the house. At best it was thirty seconds. And those vultures struck.
My prime suspect is Cayden. He tears things open with his teeth.
But I’m glad it’s him. He doesn’t leave anything but teeth marks.